


The Fallen King

by complexphoenix



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: ASoIaF Kink Meme, Aftermath of Torture, Anal Sex, Angst, Captivity, Genital Torture, Humiliation, M/M, Poor Robb, Red Wedding, Sexual Slavery, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-24
Updated: 2014-08-24
Packaged: 2018-02-14 10:54:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2189070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/complexphoenix/pseuds/complexphoenix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Killing Robb at the Red Wedding would have been a waste. Instead, Roose killed Catelyn and took Robb back to the Dreadfort to be his sex slave. Poor Robb is now totally broken.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Fallen King

**Author's Note:**

> This fic contains a lot of nasty stuff, so don't read it if you can't handle that sort of thing. Constructive Criticism is always welcome as I'm always looking for ways to improve my work.

Robb had forgotten what it was to be a king.

When he was a king, he'd been burdened heavily with responsibility, but also lightened with hope. Now he had neither. Everything that had ever given him joy and drive had died, slaughtered by his enemies and traitors, and now there was nothing left but the cell, dark and cold, and his flesh.

He hated his flesh. It was the reason he was still alive, the reason Lord Bolton had not killed him after he killed his mother in front of him as he watched helplessly, after the Freys slaughtered his army and his wolf and all his dreams.

He still had his crown, but it was only cold metal, a mockery of all that it had once meant. Kings were made by their subjects, the loyal men who followed them, and it had been a very long time indeed since anyone had obeyed Robb.

No, it was his turn to obey now. To obey the Lord of the Dreadfort when he commanded him to eat fetid gruel from a bowl on the floor like a dog, to get on his hands and knees to serve as his footstool while he read in his study, to bend over and open his legs.

Robb didn't know which of his many humiliations was the worst. They all blurred together into one. Was he a slave? A dog? A child? A piece of furniture? A whore? Or all of those things? The only certainty was that he was not a king. Neither was he a man, even though he still had a man's parts, unlike Theon. Robb couldn't even bring himself to hate Theon anymore. He had meant to kill him, to look him in the eye, hear his final words and then take his head off with one sure stroke, but that was kind compared to the fate that had befallen him. He never saw him but from a distance, filthy and ragged and barely recognizable. He wondered if he would eventually look the same. Perhaps he already did.

Not that his man's parts did him any good. Had he really been a husband once, his wife wet and willing and moaning beneath him as he tried to make a child with her? Those parts had given him so much joy... and that joy had been his undoing. It hurt to think of Jeyne, beautiful and faithful Jeyne who had loved him so much she had run after him even after he had told her to stay behind.

It hurt for two reasons. One was his heart, the other was his brooch. Once that silver wolf's head had pinned his cloak; now it pinned his foreskin shut. His lord and master would not allow him to pleasure himself when he was alone. Robb could piss freely enough, but getting hard would hurt him. Only when he was in his master's bed would Lord Roose pull the pin painfully out and let his manhood escape. His parts were so denied, they would jump whenever they were free even as the tender flesh bled.

Naked but for his crown and his dog's collar, Robb would be pulled by his chain and his master would order him to bend his knees and expose his hole to the lord's lust. How long had it been, since he had last resisted? Weeks or years or decades, time had disappeared into one long night since he had last seen the sun, the morning before the wedding that ended his former life. Even without being killed, he was dead.

Robb tried not to think about anything as the Lord of the Dreadfort climbed on top of him. As his soft, weak flesh parted under the pressure of Bolton's cock, Robb tried not to think of what his father would say if he could see his son's shame, submitting to his mother's murderer, utterly unresisting as the traitor claimed his pleasure.

The first time, he'd fought back. When the traitor had cut his fine clothes from his body and forced him down onto the floor with hands still covered in Mother's blood, Robb had screamed and kicked and tried to push him off. He'd been a wolf then, Grey Wind howling in his heart, their pain and grief one. But to no avail. He was held down on his back and abused right there in the spreading pool of blood as the laughter of the Freys rang harsh and cruel in his ears.

“Kill me,” he'd cried, pushing his hands impotently on Roose Bolton's chest as he was raped. _“Kill me!”_

Lord Bolton had only smiled at that, his pale eyes hard and cruel. “That would be a waste.” He cocked his head mockingly as he thrust hilt-deep into Robb. “Your Grace.”

Robb tried not to remember being dragged naked by a chain through the burned remains of his army. “Here comes the King in the North!” they shouted over and over again, making cruel japes about the pink dagger-scabbard lodged in his arse and pelting him with rotten food and the severed body parts of his men, the men that he had failed. Every time he thought of that, it made him seize up and want to die, but he couldn't forget. He could never forget. The memory seemed to be a part of him, a black knot of pain and tears in his heart where Grey Wind once had been.

Compared to that, this was kind. Robb moaned and bared his neck submissively as his master used him. A man would fight. A king's men would defend his honor. But Robb was neither of those things, much as he tried not to think about that.

But the worst thing, the thing he tried to think about the least, was that Bolton's pleasure was his own as well. That ruthless cock, hot and hard and pounding inside him, made his blood rush, made him feel almost alive. He was not allowed any other vestige of happiness. Darkness and blood and shit and stale food and fetid water and a brooch imprisoning his cock were his life now, and the soft, warm caress of his Lord and his Lord's bed was the only thing left that had any sweetness. Robb let all the bitter memories of happier days and bloody slaughter and brutal humiliation slip away in the wet warmth of sex, his cock stretching out in the warm air as Bolton's manhood pressed and pulled the weak flesh of his ass. Pleasure and pain were one in the haze, as he went up and up and away from the cruel world until he shattered into a thousand pieces of soft, bittersweet pleasure and ceased to be anything.

But then he fell back to earth and became his flesh again. He remembered who he was, and what he once was, and his father and mother and brothers and sisters and his wife and his wolf and everything that ever gave him joy, and his sword and his men and his victories and everything that ever gave him honor. And he remembered the Lannisters and the Freys, and everything that turned it all to ash. And his shame, that he was nothing at all but a whore who lived only to be fucked by his worst enemy.

He couldn't muster the strength to hate his enemies anymore.

He only had enough to hate himself.


End file.
